The Huguenot Part 24

"If thy faith be the same as mine, Clemence," said the Count, "if thy heart be united with mine, I will fear nothing, I will dare all. If they will not suffer us to live in peace in this our native land, fortunately I have just transmitted to another country enough to support us in peace, and tranquillity, and ease.--And yet, oh yet, Clemence," he continued, his tone becoming sadder and his countenance losing its look of hope, "and yet, oh yet, Clemence, when I think of that unhappy man who has just left us, and of the fair girl whose corpse he has now borne away in his arms;--when I remember that scarcely more than eight days have pa.s.sed since he was animated with the same hopes that I am, founding those hopes upon the same schemes of flight, and trusting more than I have ever trusted to the bright hereafter,--when I think of that, and of his present fate, the agony that must now be wringing his heart, the dark obscurity of his bitter despair, I tremble to dream of the future, not for myself, but for thee, sweet girl. But we must fall upon some plan both of communicating when we will, and of acting constantly on one scheme and for one object. Here comes your faithful attendant. She must know our situation and our plans--only one word more. You have promised me this," he continued, once more raising her hand to his lips.

"When and where you will," replied Clemence.

"And you will fly with me, whenever I find the opportunity of doing so?"

"I will," she answered.

The attendant had now approached, and the Count took a step towards her, still holding Clemence by the hand, as if he feared to lose the precious boon she had bestowed upon him.

"She is mine, Madame," he said, addressing the attendant. "She is mine, by every promise that can bind one human being to another."

"And you are hers?" demanded the attendant solemnly. "And you are hers, my Lord Count, by the same promises?"

"I am, by every thing I hold sacred," said the Count, raising his hand towards Heaven, "now and for ever, till death take me from her. But ere we can be united, I fear, I fear that many things must be undergone. Alas, that I should recommend it! but she must even conceal her faith: for, from the cruel measures of the court, even now death or perpetual imprisonment in some unknown dungeon is the only fate reserved for the relapsed convert, as they call those who have been driven to embrace a false religion, and quitted it in renewed disgust.

But I must trust to you to afford me the means of communicating with her at all times. The only chance for us, I fear, is flight."

"It is the only one! it is the only one!" replied the maid. "Fly with her to England, my Lord. Fly with her as speedily as possible. Be warned, my Lord, and neither delay nor hesitate. The edge of the net is just falling on you. If you take your resolution at once, and quit the land before a week be over, you may be safe; but if you stay longer, every port in France will be closed against you."

"I will make no delay," replied the Count. "Her happiness and her safety are now committed to my charge; inestimable trusts, which I must on no account risk. But I have some followers and dependants to provide for, even here. I have some friends to defend; and I must not show myself remiss in that; or she herself would hardly love me. It were easy, methinks, however, for you and your mistress to make your escape at once to England, and for me to join you there hereafter."

"Oh no, my lord, I fear not!" replied the maid. "I do not think Monsieur de Rouvre himself would object to her marrying you and flying. He shrewdly suspects, I think, that she is Protestant at heart; but he would never yield to her flying herself. But, hark! I hear horses coming. Let us draw back and be quiet."

"There is no sound of carriage-wheels, I fear," said Clemence, listening. "Oh, Albert, all this day's sad events have quite overpowered me; and I dread the slightest sound."

The Count pressed her hand in his, and, as was usual with him in moments of danger, turned his eyes towards his sword-belt, forgetting that the blade was gone. The sound of horses' feet approaching rapidly, however, still continued; and, at length, a party of four persons, whose faces could not be well distinguished in the increasing darkness, stopped exactly opposite the spot where a little rough road led down into the hollow where the lovers were. One of the riders sprang to the ground in a moment, and, leaving his horse with the others, advanced, exclaiming aloud,--

"Hollo! Ho! Albert de Morseiul! Hollo! where are you?"

"It is the voice of the Chevalier d'Evran," cried Clemence, clinging closer to her lover, as if with some degree of fear.

"I think it is," said the Count; "but fear not! He is friendly to us all. Draw down your veil, however, my beloved; it is not necessary that he should see and know you."

With the same shout the Chevalier continued to advance towards them, and the Count took a step or two forward to meet him. But, shaking his friend warmly by the hand, the Chevalier pa.s.sed on at once to the lady, and, to the surprise of the Count, addressed her immediately by her name: "Very pretty, indeed, Mademoiselle Clemence!" he said; "this is as dangerous a jest, I think, as ever was practised."

Clemence hesitated not a moment, but replied at once, "It is no jest, Sir! It is a dangerous reality, if you will."

"Poo, poo, silly girl," cried the Chevalier. "By the Lord that lives, you will get yourself into the castle of Pignerol, or the Bastille, or some such pleasant abode! I have come at full speed to bring you back."

"Stay yet a minute, Louis," said the Count somewhat gravely. "There is another person to be consulted in this business, whom you do not seem to recollect. Mademoiselle de Marly is, for the time, under my protection; and you know we delegate such a duty to no one."

"My dear Count," replied the Chevalier, "the good Duc de Rouvre will doubtless be infinitely obliged to you for the protection you have given to this fair lady; but having sent me to find her and bring her back, I must do so at once; and will only beg her to be wise enough to make no rash confessions as she goes. The affair, as far as she is concerned, is a jest at present: it is likely, I hear, to prove a serious jest to others. I left your man, who directed me hither, to bring up the carriage as far as possible: and now, Mademoiselle Clemence, we will go, with your good pleasure."

The tone of authority in which the Chevalier spoke by no means pleased Albert of Morseiul, who felt strong in his heart the newly acquired right of mutual love to protect Clemence de Marly himself. He was not of a character, however, to quarrel with his friend lightly, and he replied, "Louis, we are too old friends for you to make me angry. As your proposal of conveying Mademoiselle de Marly back in her own carriage, coincides with what we had previously arranged, of course I shall not oppose it; but equally, of course, I accompany her to Ruffigny."

"I am afraid that cannot be, Albert," answered the Chevalier; and the resolute words, "It must be!" had just been uttered in reply, when Clemence interfered.

"It is very amusing, gentlemen," she said in her ordinary tone of scornful playfulness, "it is very amusing, indeed, to hear you calmly and quietly settling a matter that does not in the least depend upon yourselves. You forget that I am here, and that the decision must be mine. Monsieur le Chevalier, be so good as not to look authoritative, for, depend upon it, you have no more power here than that old hawthorn stump. Monsieur de Rouvre cannot delegate what he does not possess; and as I have never yet suffered any one to rule me, I shall not commence that bad practice to-night. You may now tell me, in secret, what are your motives in this business; but, depend upon it, that my own high judgment will decide in the end."

"Let it!" replied the Chevalier; and bending down his head, he whispered a few words to Clemence in a quick and eager manner. She listened attentively, and when he had done, turned at once to the Count de Morseiul, struggling to keep up the same light manner, but in vain.

"I fear," she said, "Monsieur de Morseiul, that I must decide for the plan of the Chevalier, and that I must lay my potent commands upon you not to accompany or follow me. Nay more, I will forbid your coming to Ruffigny tomorrow; but the day after, unless you hear from me to the contrary, you may be permitted to inquire after my health."

Albert of Morseiul was deeply mortified; too much so, indeed, to reply in any other manner than by a stately bow. Clemence saw that he was hurt; and, though some unexplained motive prevented her from changing her resolution, she cast off reserve at once, and holding out her hand to him, said aloud, notwithstanding the presence of the Chevalier, "Do you forgive me, Albert?"

Though unable to account for her conduct, the Count felt that he loved her deeply still, and he pressed his lips upon her hand warmly and eagerly, while Clemence added in a lower tone, but by no means one inaudible to those around who chose to listen, "Have confidence in me, Albert! Have confidence in me, and remember you have promised never to doubt me whatever may happen. Oh, Albert, having once given my affection, believe me utterly incapable of trifling with yours even by a single thought."

"I will try, Clemence," he replied; "but you must own there is something here to be explained."

"There is!" she said, "there is; and it shall be explained as soon as possible; but, in the mean time, trust me! Here comes the servant, I think: the carriage must be near."

It was as she supposed; and the Count gave her his arm to a.s.sist her in climbing back to the level ground above, saying, at the same time in a tone of some coldness which he could not conquer, "As the lady has herself decided, Chevalier, I shall not of course press my attendance farther than to the carriage door; but have you men enough with you to insure her safety? It is now completely dark."

"Quite enough!" replied the Chevalier, "quite enough, Albert;" and he fell into silence till they reached the side of the vehicle, dropping, however, a few yards behind Clemence and her lover.

Every moment of existence is certainly precious, as a part of the irrevocable sum of time written against us in the book of life; but there is no occasion on which the full value of each instant is so entirely felt, in which every minute is so dear, so treasured, so inestimable in our eyes, as when we are about to part with her we love. Albert of Morseuil felt that it was so; and in the few short moments that pa.s.sed ere they reached the carriage, words were spoken in a low murmuring tone, which, in the intensity of the feelings they expressed and excited, wrought more deeply on his heart and hers, than could the pa.s.sage of long indifferent years. They were of those few words spoken in life that remain in the ear of memory for ever.

The fiery hand that, at the impious feast, wrote the fate of the a.s.syrian in characters of flame, left them to go out extinguished when the announcement was complete; but the words that the hand of deep and intense pa.s.sion writes upon firm, high, and energetic hearts, remain for ever, even unto the grave itself.

Those moments were brief, however, and Clemence and her attendant were soon upon their way; the Chevalier sprang upon his horse, and then held out his hand frankly to the Count. "Albert," he said, laughing, "I have never yet beheld so great a change of Love's making as that which the truant boy has wrought in thee. Thou wouldst even quarrel with thy oldest and dearest companion--thou who art no way quarrelsome. You have known me now long, Albert; love me well still.

If you have ever seen me do a dishonest act, cast me off; if not, as I heard Clemence say just now--trust me!" and thus saying, he galloped off, without waiting for any reply.

CHAPTER V.

THE REVENGE.

While Clemence de Marly cast herself back in the carriage; and, with the great excitement under which she had been acting for some time, now over, hid her eyes with her hands, and gave herself up to deep, and even to painful thought--while over that bright and beautiful countenance came a thousand varied expressions as she recollected all that had pa.s.sed--while the look of horror rose there as she remembered all the fearful scenes she had beheld, the murderous treachery of the dragoons, the retribution taken by the people, and the death of the unhappy girl who had received one of the random shots--while that again was succeeded by the expression of admiration and enthusiasm, as she recalled the words and conduct of the Protestant pastor, and while a blush, half of shame and half of joy, succeeded, as she remembered all that had pa.s.sed between her and Albert of Morseiul; the Count himself was wending his way slowly homeward, with feelings different from hers, and by no means so happy.

She knew that difficulty and danger surrounded her, she knew that much was necessarily to be endured, much to be apprehended; but she had woman's greatest, strongest consolation. She had the great, the mighty support, that she was loved by him whom alone she loved. With her that was enough to carry her triumphant through all danger, to give her a spirit to resist all oppression, to support her under all trials, to overcome all fears.

It may be asked, when we say that Albert of Morseiul's feelings were different, whether he then loved her less than she loved him, whether love in his bosom was less powerful, less all-sufficing than in hers.

It would seem strange to answer, no; yet such was not the case. He loved her as much, as deeply, as she did him; he loved her as tenderly, as truly. His love--though there must always be a difference between the love of man and the love of woman--was as full, as perfect, as all-sufficing as her own, and yet his bosom was not so much at ease as hers, his heart did not feel the same confidence in its own happiness that hers did. But there were many different causes combined to produce that effect. In the first place, he knew the dangers, the obstacles, the difficulties, far better than she did. He knew them more intimately, more fully, more completely; they were all present to his mind at once; no bright hopes of changing circ.u.mstances came to relieve the prospect; but all, except the love of Clemence de Marly, was dark, obscure, and threatening around him. That love might have seemed, however, but as a brighter spot amidst the obscurity, had it not been that apprehensions for her were now added to all his apprehensions for his religion and his country. It might have seemed all the brighter for the obscurity, had it been itself quite unclouded, had there not been some shadows, though slight, some mystery to be struggled with, something to be forgotten or argued down.

During the few last minutes that he was with her, the magic fascination of her presence had conquered every thing, and seated love triumphant above all; but as he rode on, Albert de Morseiul pondered over what had occurred, thought of the influence which the Chevalier d'Evran had exerted over her, combined it with what he had seen before at Poitiers, and p.r.o.nounced it in his own heart, "very strange." He resolved not to think upon it, and yet he thought. He accused himself--the man of all others the least suspicious on the earth, by nature--he accused himself of being basely suspicious. He argued with himself that it was impossible that either on the part of Clemence or the Chevalier there should be any thing which could give him pain, when each, in the presence of the other, behaved to him as they had behaved that night; and yet there was something to be explained, which hung--like one of those thin veils of cloud that sometimes cover even the summer sun, prognosticating a weeping evening to a blithe noon--which hung over the only star that fate had left to shine upon his track, and he thought of it sadly and anxiously, and longed for something to bear it far away.

He struggled with such feelings and such reflections for some time; and then, forcing his thoughts to other things, he found that there was plenty, indeed, for him to consider and to provide against, plenty to inquire into and to ponder over, ere he resolved or acted. First came the recollection of the quarrel between himself and the young De Hericourt. He knew that the rash and cruel young man had made his escape from the field, for he himself, with two of his servants, had followed him close, and, by detaining a party of the pursuers, had afforded the commander of the dragoons an opportunity to fly. That he would immediately require that which is absurdly called satisfaction, for the blow which had been struck, there could be no earthly doubt, although the laws against duelling were at that time enforced with the utmost strictness, and there was not the slightest chance whatsoever of the King showing mercy to any Protestant engaged in a duel with a Roman Catholic.

No man more contemned or reprobated the idiotical custom of duelling than the Count himself; no man looked upon it in a truer light than he did; but yet must we not forgive him, if, even with such feelings and with such opinions, he prepared, without a thought or hesitation, to give his adversary the meeting he demanded? Can we severely blame him if he determined, with his own single arm, to avenge the wanton slaughter that had been committed, and to put the barrier of a just punishment between the murderer of so many innocent people and a repet.i.tion of the crime? Can we blame him, if, seeing no chance whatsoever of the law doing justice upon the offender, he resolved--risking at the same time his own life--to take the law into his hand, and seek justice for himself and others?

The next subject that started up for consideration was the general events of that day, and the question of what colouring would be given to those events at the court of France.

A peaceful body of people, meeting together for the worship of the Almighty, in defiance of no law, (for the edict concerning the expulsion of the Protestant pastors, and prohibiting the preaching of the reformed religion at all, had not yet appeared,) had been brutally insulted by a body of unauthorised armed men, had been fired upon by them without provocation, and had lost several of their number, murdered in cold blood and in a most cowardly manner, by the hands of the military. They had then, in their own defence, attacked and pursued their brutal a.s.sailants, and had slain several of them as a direct consequence of their own crimes.

Such were the simple facts of the case; but what was the tale, the Count asked himself, which would be told at the court of France, and vouched for by the words of those, who, having committed the great crime of unprovoked murder, would certainly entertain no scruple in regard to justifying it by the lesser crime of a false oath?